Connections
by ExpositionFairy
Summary: A series of 5 ficlets written for an "unappreciated pairing" challenge. Even in the strangest of situations, the most desperate of circumstances, connections can still be forged.
1. Ruined

**"We are the same,"** the Virus whispers. **"We are ruined."**

The only desire left within Abraxas—death—has been denied him by his very nature. Always he reforms, from viral remnants in the colonies he ravaged, from the black depths of the Sea itself, and nothing Clu's best men or Abraxas himself have tried can keep him at bay for long. Clu truly made him _perfect_, and the thought makes him laugh and scream all at once.

For a time he remained in the dark desert of the Outlands, haunting the edges of the Sea, feeding on any stray Programs unfortunate enough to wander his way. One thing, however, continues to draw him back to the City: a connection, twisted and shattered and _ruined_, but seemingly as stubborn and determined as the both of them had once been, a thousand thousand cycles ago.

It's the same, mostly, every time. Abraxas cannot infect the Security Program. His root coding simply will not allow it. At first this fact enraged him, then fascinated him. Tron's touch burns him, far worse than the pain that already consumes him, and his own touch is anathema and repulsive to Tron's very being…but he's losing that, anyway, more and more every day, and so they make contact regardless.

Sometimes Tron calls Abraxas by his name; sometimes by the other, the dead one. No one calls Tron by his true name anymore but Abraxas.

Eventually, Tron stops speaking altogether, and that's fine, too.


	2. Laughing at the Devil

_That [Commander] thinks he's something, _

_But it's ME who runs this town~_

* * *

Sark hasn't a clue in hell how this little upstart has lasted so long, and it's starting to infuriate him.

"I could take you apart right this second," he growls, sending another pulse through the decompiler as punctuation and grinding his teeth when the actuary refuses to scream. "Reduce you piece by piece to a meaningless jumble of ones and zeroes and then watch those ones and zeroes dissolve into nothing, and will your _Users_ save you?"

Despite the exhaustion and pain clearly visible on his face, the little Program _laughs._

"What?" Sark practically shouts. "Are you such a stupid little glitch you don't even understand the situation you're in? What in blazes is so eternally _funny_?"

"You," Ram replies, sniggering. "Just…imagining you if your User decided to rewrite you into a bit-herder. Or maybe a herd of bits. "YES NO YES NO" all day long…not much different from your regular job, am I right? Also, your helmet is hilarious. How does anyone take you seriously?"

For a moment Sark contemplates turning the decompiler up to its maximum level and derezzing Ram right then and there…but that would be too fast. He wants to _break_ this impudent null-unit, crush his insolence and his faith and his neverending infernal laughter until he's nothing but the mindless number-cruncher he _should_ have been from creation.

Perhaps he'll set him against one of his own, next time. That should do nicely, for a start.

"Take him back to his cell. Next round in thirty microcycles."


	3. Survivors

The explosion of the Guard station has destabilized the entire area, and the ground is collapsing into the Undercity beneath them faster than the rebels can outrun it. They're still being pursued too; chased from the skies by the few remaining Black Guards who'd managed to escape the station with their wingpacks, and it's certainly only a matter of time before the Recognizers arrive.

There's a cry from behind Quorra, and she looks over her shoulder just in time to see another of her comrades fall into the chasm. Yori gives her no time to mourn, though, grabbing her forearm and yanking her forward almost hard enough to pull her off her feet. "Run, dammit, don't look back!"

They've almost made it across the bridge to the lightrunner when two of the guards set down on them, one on either side, boxing them in. They're both exhausted, circuits flickering with low energy, but Quorra activates her katana and Yori extends her spear and they stand, back-to-back and faces set.

They give no quarter.

When it's over they sink against each other, clinging to one another in the aftermath of battle, a quiet moment that they cannot afford but that they _need_, desperately, and damn anyone who comes for them.

They are survivors.


	4. Proposal

Mackey's just finished his second drink (Jameson's Gold, on the rocks), wondering bitterly how the hell his entire life and everything he's worked for have managed to get upended and chucked into the fucking Negative Zone so fucking _fast, _when the man sits down beside him, setting a third drink by his hand. He rolls his eyes. _Great. What do I need to make my day complete? Some drunk ass hitting on me in a bar._

"Sorry, buddy, I'm flattered, but I'm st—"

The words die in his throat when he turns to get a good look at the guy. He's older, _much_ older, thin and wiry and dressed in a three-piece suit, and he definitely doesn't look like he wants to chat Mackey up. More to the point, Mackey's _sure_ he's seen this guy's face before, but stress and sleep-deprivation and alcohol have scrambled his brains.

"I saw the news," the old man says mildly, but his eyes are flashing behind his glasses. "Rough day for you, hasn't it been?"

Irritation spikes up within Mackey. A corporate rival, maybe? Whoever he is, the last thing he needs right now is this jerkoff rubbing it in. "Yeah, fuck off. What's it to you, anyway?"

"Flynn," the man answers simply, and now his voice and expression are tinged with a kind of knowing sympathy. "I know. I know _all about it_."

The pieces suddenly click into place, and Mackey knows where he's seen the man before. _Dillinger. _

"Finish your drink, Richard," Dillinger continues, lips quirking into a smirk. "I have stories to tell and proposals to make, and believe me, you want to hear them."


	5. Changeling

At first, Alan was tempted to just chalk it up to Kevin being, well…Kevin. But he's acting _particularly _bizzare today, and Alan's unease is growing by the hour.

For one thing, he's never known Kevin to be so _quiet _before. Usually he's the bane of board meetings with the way he interrupts and spins off on tangents and generally doesn't let anyone get a word in edgewise (unless he's falling asleep in his seat), but today he simply sat in near silence, chin resting on his hands, head cocked slightly as he just _listened_ to the other board members speak, with hardly a suggestion of his own. Then there's the way he keeps running his hands over every surface, walls and office furniture and even passing coworkers (which gains him fewer odd looks than one might expect; Kevin and personal space have never been on speaking terms), the way he stares at _everything_ with a sort of lazy but sharply-focused fascination that Alan's never seen before. More than once today Alan's caught Kevin looking at _him _that way, curious and slightly predatory, and it spooks him. Kevin never misses an opportunity to flirt with him, of course, but this is _different_.

Alan's never considered himself a particularly intuitive person, but every instinct is telling him that something isn't right, and right now one suspicion is rocketing to the top of the list. He knows Kevin's got his recreational vices, but he's _never _come to work high before, and Alan is becoming seriously worried that what was once an occasional vice might well be becoming a habit in the aftermath of Jordan's death.

When he enters Kevin's office, the first thing he notices is how _neat _the room suddenly is, and Alan's near-certainty that Kevin's loaded on something falters at the sight. Generally any space Kevin occupies tends to look like a small hurricane spun up around him after approximately five minutes or so, his workspaces cluttered with notes and takeout menus and soda cans and casually-tossed diskettes. Now, though, all the notes have been sorted into orderly stacks, placed neatly to either side of Kevin's desk in perfect symmetry, and there's not a can or a Shakey's Pizza coupon flyer in sight. Even the furniture's been rearranged.

"Kevin?"

He's standing in front of the big plate-glass window, hands clasped behind his back, with L.A. sprawled out below him in the summer haze. When he hears Alan's voice he turns, smiling. "Alan," he says, and something in the tone or pitch of his voice makes Alan's skin prickle. "Alan Bradley. What can I do for you?"

"…Kevin, are you alright?"

Kevin blinks, his head tilting to the side again, regarding Alan with that strange hyperfocused gaze. His smile widens. "Of course I'm alright, Alan. Never better."

He crosses the room to Alan, fingers trailing absently across the slick black surface of the touchscreen desk, making it light up in response to his touch. There's a soft "click" a second later, and it takes Alan a moment to realize that it's the sound of the door closing and latching behind him, seemingly of its own accord. In that time Kevin's already closed the distance, staring thoughtfully at him before reaching up to slowly pull Alan's glasses away from his face.

"Kevin, what is going _on_ with you?" Alan nearly squawks.

"I don't know," Kevin replies, leaning in closer. His hand is cool against Alan's cheek and temple, but his fingertips are hot, as if there were electric coils beneath the skin. "Why don't you tell me, and I'll tell you when you're getting warm."


End file.
